


This Is It My Only Heartbeat

by sneakytoaster



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneakytoaster/pseuds/sneakytoaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set directly after "alpha pact" </p><p>Stiles struggles to pull himself back from death and must join his pack in the fight between the Alphas and the Darach. </p><p>"Deaton’s words catch on his thoughts sometimes, like a loose thread catching on splintered wood; at times the darkness feels real and it stays with him, pulling at his memory. He remembers blurs of shapes and swirls contorting like ink in water. He remembers stillness and silence. It’s not that he expected a bright light or choirs of angels singing, but damnit he imagined something, not just emptiness. It felt wrong, like hell with no fire, just endless muted darkness."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. These are the only hands I know

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic comes from the song "Anything (whistling song)" by Thomas Kivi
> 
> Also given we were finally told that Stiles is Polish this year I took the liberty of giving him a polish grandma ;) while I dont speak polish my grandparents do and I have always called my grandmother baba. I dont know how correct this is or if there is a better form of the word but I am just going from what I know. Also, Stile's mother calls him "pucek" which is what my grandmother called me as a baby because I was so chunky. I was told it means chubby but again, I dont speak polish, just writing from my own experience. 
> 
> **let me know what you guys think and if you want me to continue this!

Stiles first notices how the water mutes his surroundings, and the sound of his father’s badge scraping against the rim of the basin startles him enough to remember to pull his hands in the water. The corners of the badge dig into his skin as he grips it tighter, trying to think of anything but his father’s face if he doesn’t survive this. The water is freezing, filled with herbs that irritate his exposed skin just enough to notice, but not enough to pull his focus from the cold and the dread of waiting. Even feeling his heartbeat pound in his ears is wrong somehow, knowing that soon that sound will stop, that his lungs will burn and his head will pound until he opens his mouth and lets the water drown him. 

He is aware of every second; his body dulls and gets heavy with the weight of his clothes. Though he feels the seconds pass he cannot measure them in anything but the tightness in his chest and the desperate urge he has to struggle against the hands holding him down. He pities Lydia and Isaac. He doesn’t know if he could do the same if Scott asked this of him. He imagined more pain, more desperation. He thinks of Matt and how he must have thrashed under the water. Instead he feels the world narrowing and the water feels like its embracing him, slithering around his limbs trying to hold him under. He isn’t sure of much more after that. All he remembers is a burning and the thin tendons of Lydia’s wrists when he gripped them struggling for air as water passed through his lips and down his throat. 

 

****

 

When asked what death feels like, Stiles gives a pretty perfunctory answer. It feels like nothing, because you’re dead. But Deaton’s words catch on his thoughts sometimes, like a loose thread catching on splintered wood; at times the darkness feels real and it stays with him, pulling at his memory. He remembers blurs of shapes and swirls contorting like ink in water. He remembers stillness and silence. It’s not that he expected a bright light or choirs of angels singing, but damnit he imagined something, not just emptiness. It felt wrong, like hell with no fire, just endless muted darkness. 

When his Baba Agnieszka died his mother was too beside herself to explain to him what had happened. He remembered his confusion as he and his father sat on the hard and yellowing plastic cover of her paisley couch while his mother cried over her body in the other room. When he went in to visit, before the funeral home collected the body, his mother was keeping vigil in the corner. Her whispered prayers as she clutched her rosary sounded so foreign to Stiles that he could barely focus on the dead body that had once been his grandmother. 

That was the first death he had ever experienced, until his mom two years later. Just the soft and hazy memories remain of them both; the warm candies his grandmother kept in her coat pocket for him when they would walk to mass on Sundays, the soft surprised laugh after he shaved his head for the first time so his mom wouldn’t be embarrassed about losing her hair, and the feeling of her hand in his as she whispered to him from the hospital bed, calling him Pucek as his grandmother used to. When he imagined his mother and grandmother after they died he pictured warmth and soft clouds. He pictured his coloring books from Sunday school, before he stopped going all together, with angels and light. He didn’t picture nothing, and he didn’t picture being alone.

 

***

 

When the stillness ends, the pain flushes out like fire over dry grass. Everything feels like agony and he can't distinguish sound from touch or smell. His eyes stay firmly shut and he feels as if a tide is pulling him under, curling in pounding crescents that rip any sense or thought from his mind. The waves are relentless, some force feels like its lifting him up to the surface but at the last moment the wave pulls around him and drags him back under. He sinks deeper and becomes aware of movement in the blackness. What was still is now writhing and what was silent is screaming so loud he doesn’t know how to block it out. He feels a grasping, pulling, choking force on his body bringing him back to the stillness, but the dark remains unsettled. 

A flash of heat sears his skin, his awareness of his body so sudden it feels like pulling on wet clothes ten sizes too big. Something is wrong, something doesn’t fit but the pulling suddenly stops and his eyes slam open to light so bright it feels blinding. He can feel breath in his lungs as they struggle to expand and water dripping down his skin as he starts to shiver. The goose pimples that break out over his arms and legs are painful, every nerve feeling chaffed from lack of blood flow to his brain. He spends countless seconds feeling his body again, feeling sensation and trying to force his mind to start processing the loud hum in his ears and the herbal smell cloying at his nostrils. 

His eyelid is pulled open to more light swaying back and forth but he can’t focus his vision enough to process it. He would fight the intrusion but his limbs feel leaden and cold. As the humming starts to get softer, he brain begins to distinguish voices and words but he can’t understand them yet. His focus is overtaken by sudden warmth, too hot but better than the freezing cold of before. His fingers register the softness of a blanket and the shaking begins to stop as he feels his body relax and suddenly the darkness seems much more preferable than blinding light and sharp pain. 

 

***

 

When he opens his eyes again he feels instantly awake and aware. His back aches from whatever his body is laid out on, so curiously he pulls his fingers out of their death clutch on the blanket around him to push down on the soft give of the vinyl cot. The only light in the room is the surgical light over one of the steel examination tables in the center of the room, but he can make out Deaton leaned against the counter with his arms crossed and his face devoid of expression save for a slight worried wrinkle in the middle of his forehead. There is a sharp squeak as a chair is pulled over to the cot and Lydia leans over him, petting his head while her eyes scan his face looking for signs of recognition. 

“What happened?” he croaks out, barely recognizing his own voice as he struggles past the tightness in his throat. He feels like he’s been used as a werewolf chew toy, his muscles screaming in protest as tries to sit up, Lydia takes his hand in hers. Her eyes water as she bites down on her lip and he takes a second to appreciate how beautiful she is. 

“Stiles, you didn’t….you didn’t come back….after” she stops and chokes a little on the words she is clearly determined to get out. “When you went under the water everything was fine and then Deaton brought Scott and Allison out of it. You just…you wouldn’t come back.” 

Stiles looks around the room expecting to see Isaac, Scott, and Allison somewhere but they are the only three people in the room. He starts a little as Deaton comes toward him and crouches down next to the cot. “It took some time to pull you back Stiles. You were meant to be dead, clinically dead, for just a few seconds. It took me more than an hour to bring you back” Deaton explains like that is supposed to mean anything to Stiles right now. He feels ass backwards, like he doesn’t fit, uncomfortable in his own skin. 

“What do you mean an hour? How am I-?” he stutters as he tries to communicate his confusion.

“I did everything I could. I could feel awareness but you weren’t responding to Lydia, Scott, anyone as a tether. Lydia and I kept trying but-"

“But I made it back right? So it worked? Is my dad ok? Scott, where’s Scott? Why isn’t he here?” Stiles fires the questions the second they swim into focus, trying to make sense of the whole picture when he feels like he only has jagged pieces. Deaton hushes him as he and Lydia share a glance too loaded with information not to get him more worked up. Lydia answers him first. 

“When the others came out of it Scott tried to help you get back but you weren’t responding and they needed to find the nemeton. They left a few hours ago, while you’ve been asleep. I’ve been calling but no one is answering. Stiles…I don’t know-"

Stiles cuts her off as he pushes his legs to the side of the bed and nudges Deaton aside as he stands on wobbly footing. He reaches down to his clothes and palms through his pockets only to remember he put his phone on the counter before he went in the basin. Deaton tries to get him to sit back down but however uncoordinated he manages to make it over to the counter and grab his phone. He scrolls through looking for messages or calls but finds nothing. A frustrated growl erupts in his throat as he turns back to his audience only to catch his eye on the light glinting from his father’s badge at the bottom of the tub of ice water. Stumbling, he crashes to his knees and fishes it out of the water, trying to ignore the cloying tightness erupting in his chest and throat. Everyone he loves, everyone is out there right now and he knows nothing. 

“Stiles we don’t even know where they are and stumbling into a fight between the Darach and a pack of alphas is suicide. If you both stay here you remain under my protection but once you leave I cannot help you” Deaton reasons as Stiles gathers his shoes and clumsily ties the strings. When his fingers slip for the third time a flash of strawberry blond hair encompasses his vision and his hands are swatted away as Lydia takes over for him, tying the strings in neat bows in seconds. She looks up as she finishes and they share the same determined look before turning to Deaton as one.

 

***

 

Looking over at her from the passenger side of his Jeep, Stiles can see bruises forming around Lydia’s wrists that could only be from his hands. The sight hypnotizes him a little as he struggles to formulate contingency plans A,B, and C should things have already gone wrong by the time they reach the preserve. As long as he is planning he isn’t thinking about his father, or Scott, or any of the people he has become so close to lying prone on the ground, life stolen from their bodies while he was helpless to stop it. He may not have claws or teeth or superhuman strength, but his human hands can do damage of their own. 

The jeep rumbles into his own driveway first as Lydia struggles with the manual transmission. He can feel the damage she is doing to his baby as she ‘grinds it till she finds it’ as his dad would say. When she finally puts it in park he hops out on his marginally more stable legs and jams the passcode into the code box for the garage, impatiently waiting for it to open as Lydia trails behind him.

“I don’t understand what the hell I’m supposed to do with a gun Stiles, I’ve never even touched one” Lydia complains as she follows him up the stairs to his dad’s bedroom. He swings open the closet door and crouches down in front of the sizable gun safe his dad has buried under clothes barely clinging to their hangers and storage boxes. He sighs a little at the state of the closet but crouches down and swings the dial to 1-23-64 and the safe opens. His dad really needs to change the number; pretty much every password he uses is his wife’s birthday. 

“Wouldn’t you rather go into a fight with something? We may not be storing an arsenal for the zombie apocalypse like the argents but a 45 is something ok” Stiles responds, rolling his eyes heavily as she takes the gun he passes to her by the handle and holds it between her thumb and her forefinger like he just handed her a dirty tissue. He grabs it back from her and readjusts her hands around it so she is holding it properly and shows her how to take the safety off. When she looks surer of it he takes it back and loads it for her, hoping his dad won’t ground him for this later. Much, much later if he can help it. 

“Aren’t you going to use one?” she asks, as he closes the door of the safe and spins the dial. They cross the hall into Stiles’ room as he tugs the bottom panel off of his cheap IKEA dresser and pulls out a Tupperware container of black ash. He opens it up and inspects it, just in case, before turning and digging beneath his bed to produce a standard wooden bat. Lydia raises her eyebrow at him as he sits on his bed to open the container.

“Ok so I may have pilfered some mountain ash from Deaton’s office. I figured it would be useful someday, alright?” he responds defensively. “The one I temporarily sort of borrowed from the McCall's house kind of split in two at the hospital so I figure if I can’t get a bat made of whatever tree mountain ash is made from, we can just coat this one in it? What do you think?”

“ Rowan” she corrects as she sits down to help him. Stiles remains confused and she huffs in exasperation before explaining, “Sorbus scopulina, native to California, commonly known as a rowan tree. That’s where mountain ash comes from.”

“ Right” Stiles responds, once again feeling a like a twelve year old idiot trying to get the attention of the prettiest girl in school. She dips her fingers into the powder and suggests they coat the bat in oil first so the mountain ash will stay. The closest thing Stiles has in his kitchen is olive oil, and though he feels a little bit like he is trying to make a sloppy last minute science project this is really his only idea so it’s just going to have to work.


	2. It's true that nothing lives forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone likes part 2 :) wanted to get it in before the finale tmrw

Stiles struggles to breathe quietly, all the while internally acknowledging the futility of trying to creep through a forest full of werewolves with superhuman hearing. With any luck, their passage will go unnoticed until they want to be found. Lydia had stopped and stared into the dark at the edge of the preserve as soon as they had gotten out of the jeep, and when no immediate signal or intuitive spark seemed forthcoming they decided it would probably be better to at least be moving than remain out in the open.

In hindsight, it might have been better for both their nerves if they at least had the comfort of seeing the enemy coming. Instead, every shift of sound in the din registered as a threat. The trees appeared menacing and ashen, the moonlight dim but bright and prevailing enough to cast shadows left and right into the dark. Lydia is holding his father’s gun like she’s seen too many bad movies but he doesn’t want to make additional noise by telling her so. Instead he hopes she knows when to pull the trigger, if it comes to that. 

The bat in his hands is covered in a heavy-handed layer of mountain ash and he holds it carefully in the air, ready to strike at whatever strikes first. They reach a small stream, more a trickle of water running through some leaves and mud than anything, and the wind abruptly changes direction. They both stop and listen, hoping to hear something, anything of their friends. Stiles prepares to keep moving forward but Lydia snags his elbow as he goes to pass over the shallow water. 

She is looking into the forest to their left and Stiles cautiously hefts his bat up and looks for shadows in the dark. When nothing comes, he turns to look at her in confusion only to find she isn’t paying him any attention at all. Instead she stares off into the distance, unfocused and dazed as she watches something he can’t see. When she moves finally moves, he is helpless to do anything but follow, though his guard is up should something come out from between the trees. 

 

***

 

It’s difficult to measure time when concentrating all ones effort on moving as noiselessly as possible while also attempting to see into every shadow and crevice of the woods. Stiles isn’t sure how long they walk but it seems like only minutes before Lydia stops and abruptly turns toward him. The glazed look in her eyes has been replaced by blown pupils and elevated breathing as she turns a shaking finger towards the tree to her back. 

“Something’s there. Something not right….Stiles….please I can’t,” she whispers and cuts off clearly not wanting to finish the thought. Stiles silently connects the dots and prepares himself for whomever’s body he is about to find on the other side of that tree. He lowers his bat slightly, and circles the massive trunk, looking down into the slight hollow in the ground on the other side. Beneath gnarled roots protruding from the side of the small cavity is a pair of red, glowing eyes. 

Stiles yelps in surprise as Kali stares back him from the flat of her back, barely breathing and digging her claws into the earth. He recognizes her only by the black claws on her shoeless feet and long fingers, her face barely covered in ribbons of flesh that judging from the gouges in her clothes and the blood leaking down over the leaves extends to the rest of her body. She bares her teeth at him in a low whine as she digs her fingers deeper into the soil, writhing in what he can only imagine is agonizing pain. 

He is suddenly paralyzed with the reality of the situation staring him straight in the face. He helplessly remains frozen until abruptly a whistle echoes in his right ear and an arrow imbeds itself in the flesh of the alpha’s arm, piercing clean through the visible tendons. He startles and raises his bat, turning toward the source of the weapon only to have Lydia thump into him on his side and push the bat to the ground. Allison comes sprinting down the small hill like a valkyrie in black and Stiles lets out a breath of relief. Before he can say a word, a second and third arrow pierce into the alphas body, effectively pinning her to the roots of the tree as she snarls and struggles to heal. 

“What the hell Allison? That arrow was like an inch away from me!” Stiles scolds in a hushed shout. Allison ignores him and pushes both he and Lydia out of the way. Fishing a long, wicked-looking dagger from her boot she unceremoniously crouches down and slides it along the alpha’s throat. Stiles stands gaping as the life drains from Kali’s eyes. Not two seconds after placing her dagger back in its sheath she turns to Stiles and wraps her arms around his neck. 

“I thought when we left Deaton’s we would be coming back to a dead body. Please don’t ever scare me like that again” she whispers softly in his ear while practically crushing him in her arms. Stiles is strangely flattered and isn’t sure what to do with the sudden flush of emotions that rise in his chest. 

“I don’t know about you and Scott but I don’t exactly plan on sacrificing my life in an arcane druidic ritual ever again so I think we’re good” he jokes, grateful to hear to giggle softly as she lets go of his neck. Suddenly he remembers the sweet girl he met at lunch on her first day and mourns her a little as he looks at the hard, resilient woman who took her place. He wishes sometimes he could go back in time and put her and Scott in a little box safe from the world and its relentless spite and cruelty. They’ve all seen enough ugliness to last a lifetime. 

“Have you found the nemeton yet? Where are the rest of the alphas and Ms. Blake?” Stiles asks Allison notices the gun in Lydia’s hand and promptly pulls it from her grasp with a scoff of exasperation only to produce a box of bullets from the inside pocket of her coat. Lydia huffs at the insult to her apparent prowess as a bad-ass gun wielding killer, as Allison unloads the clip into her hand and expertly replaces them with what Stiles can only guess are the Argent’s own special brand of werewolf- stopping ammo. 

“Last I saw Scott and Isaac they were fighting the twins, trying to keep them separate so they aren’t able to merge. Deucalion didn’t even show himself until Kali and Ms. Blake were already going at each other. There was a huge tree stump behind them, and it felt….it felt not right…powerful but not right. I don’t know how to describe it. Ms. Blake did something to Kali and suddenly she went running so I followed her blood trail here” Allison explains as she skillfully loads the gun and hands it back to Lydia with a nod of approval. 

She turns her attention the bat in Stiles’ hand and prepares to say something no doubt scathing about his makeshift weapon when suddenly Lydia raises the gun in her hand and fires over Allison’s shoulder. Before Stiles can even make sense of what is happening, Allison is firing off her bow into the tumbling shapes slamming into a large fallen log at the crest of the hill behind him. One of the shapes gracelessly slides down the slope towards them before regaining its footing and turning to growl up at the advancing wolf crouched on the log. Allison shoots again and misses as the shapes charge one another and once again become a blur. 

The three of them run up the opposite slope and hide behind the trunk of the large tree above Kali’s body. Once she has a better vantage point, Allison looses another arrow, this time hitting dead on and piercing the neck of what appears to be one of the alpha twins, Stiles can’t really tell one from the other. The werewolf roars in pain and the other shape, which he can now make out as Isaac, dodges it’s searching claws and stumbles out of the way. Wrenching the wolfsbane loaded gun from Lydia’s grip, Allison takes one more shot as the bullet pierces cleaning through the heart of the Alpha just as he makes to grip Isaac from behind. 

All noise in the woods abruptly trails off, and Isaac looks their direction in shock before walking toward them. He gasps out a nearly silent thank you on an alarmingly breathy exhale as he clutches a large gash in his abdomen, right over the top lip of his jeans. A large chunk of his shirt’s right shoulder is already missing and he gives them all such fucking grateful looks of welcome, Stiles can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable and undeserving.

He may have said ugly things about Isaac out of jealousy or intimidation but damnit he hopes they make it through this alive because no one deserves to have to deal with this shit. Lydia and Allison settle Isaac onto the ground and tear the remains of his t-shirt into strips to wrap the wound. Stiles struggles to feel useful as he watches, but mostly ends up sharing pained and sympathetic looks with their werewolf patient. 

 

***

 

As they begin to trek towards the north, following the grisly trail of blood back to its source, Isaac quickly takes up the rear, ostensibly to guard their backs, while Allison heads the group. Stiles is filled with relief that he is surrounded by his more than capable friends rather than alone and defenseless deep in the preserve. He feels persistent pangs of jealousy, in spite of his best efforts, at the poise with which Lydia holds herself, the dexterity and competence that Allison appears to exude from her very pores, and the instinct that comes effortlessly to Isaac when he needs it. 

He may not be a hero like Scott, but the longer he spends in this extraordinary company he feels his own ineptitude corrode at his self-esteem. Fear follows closely after, and Stiles feels so paralyzed at the thought of finding his father’s lifeless body he struggles to focus on moving with the group. He may yet lose more people he loves tonight, powerless to stop it from happening. The only things standing between him and his own death are the people surrounding him and the bat in his hands. His chances are grim, he knows this, but giving up is not an option. Maybe if he has a little faith, a spark of hope strong enough to coerce a pile of ash into a barrier, he might make it through this relatively unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and please leave comments :)


	3. Its true that seeds can only grow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, still reeling a bit from the finale but it looks like we definately go AU from now on. Please don't hesitate to leave comments or kudos- they make my day! So without further ado- here is part 3!

Allison stretches her arm out for the group to pause, and Isaac bumps lightly into Stiles’ back as he strains to hear for any immediate threat. Lydia has stopped dead a few paces before the group, two trembling fingers coming up to her mouth as she stares into the clearing ahead, unease lining her brow and her eyes full of dread. Her throat shudders as she gulps down her nerves and Stiles watches her step ahead of Allison, his hands tensing around the handle of the bat.

His stomach has been in knots, tense and rigid, since they entered the preserve what feels like days ago. He simultaneously wants to spill the contents of his stomach on the ground and expel all the air in his lungs just to feel some relief. Dear God if only something would just jump out from behind a tree so he can put his body in motion and release the tension from his arms. Lydia pulls in short gasps as she steps over to the remains of a huge tree, its severed stump still easily measuring four feet wide and God knows how deep its roots extend into the cellar below. Allison makes a slow sweep of the surrounding area as Isaac remains glued to Stiles’ side, scenting the air and listening to every rush of wind that passes through the branches. 

Lydia halts at a figure lying flat and unmoving. Grotesque white skin is stretched unnaturally over a shattered skull, teeth exposed in a gaping mouth. Their English teacher is unrecognizable like this, and Stiles’ errant mind helpfully supplies him with the image of Darth Vader without his suit. He is far from laughing at the comparison and he feels sick, imagining too vividly the suffering this woman must have gone through. Stiles reaches down slowly and lays his hand over the corpses’ throat searching for a pulse and hoping not to find one. He feels nothing for a full minute when Lydia’s scream shatters the quiet of the clearing and springs them all into action. 

Stiles jumps up from his crouch and swings his bat up into the air, prepared to strike at the first thing that moves. Isaac’s body is blurred in motion as he tackles what looks like Scott and the other twin alpha where they have emerged from the trees. Lydia is yanked from his side by a stumbling, dark mass as Allison rushes to them, firearm up and aiming in seconds. Stiles swings at the figure but misses completely, and its not until the creature has Lydia off the ground by her throat that Stiles recognizes it.

Stiles flashes back to Peter, hulking and massive on the front lawn of the Hale property. Without the backdrop of a burned and ghostly house, the huge wolf is still frightening in size though more grotesque as he retreats into the light. Stiles itches for the weight of a Molotov cocktail in his hand. The alpha grins as much as his gaping maw and fangs allow, roaring as they stand their ground. Stiles can vaguely hear the struggle between Scott, Isaac, and the other twin alpha as they fight it out in the brush behind them. 

“Put her down! Put her down or I will discharge this entire clip into your-

Allison barely finishes her threat before the sound of gunfire is already echoing is Stiles’ ears. The alpha roars and turns on Morell as she sprints into the clearing, firing off more shots into the alpha’s back. Lydia is thrown to the side as the wolf charges her and Stiles runs forward to pull her away from the fight before she becomes a casualty underfoot. Morell is distracting enough for Stiles and Allison to pull Lydia back to the nemeton, and Stiles pushes Allison and Lydia toward the trap door visible only a few feet away.

“Lydia! Get Mellissa and my dad away from here and back to the jeep. Allison can cover you!” Stiles yells as he lifts up the trap door for them to climb down the wooden ladder leading to the root cellar. 

“My dad can lead them back out of the preserve, I’m staying here!” Allison counters as she follows in after Lydia, giving him a hard look daring him to challenge her. Stiles counts his losses and focuses instead on the enormous alpha werewolf poised on his rear legs, holding Morell up against a tree. Without thinking he rushes forward as the wolf's claws come down in an arc, aiming for the throat. He hefts his bat into the air and swings down on the back of the alpha’s head as hard as he can. 

Expecting the bat the shatter as it did at the hospital, Stiles’ arms are jarred like nothing he has felt before as the impact slams into his forearms and the wolf falls to the ground. Feeling his stomach turn at the crunch of the wolfs skull as bones collapse inward, he watches horrified as the flesh begins to heal. Morell looks at him in surprise as Deucalion rears up from the dirt with a growl so deep it resonates in Stiles’ chest. Lifting the bat again, before the wolf can get fully to its feet, he slams the wood into the alpha’s face and feels a pull from somewhere deep in his chest, constricting at his heart and lungs. He feels dizzy as the bat connects and his nerves from the ends of his fingers into his biceps twinge and tingle like his arms have fallen asleep. He’s felt this once before, with his eyes closed as he hopes and prays for a circle of mountain ash to close. The ash he spread on his bat has rubbed off where it impacted the alpha’s skull and Deucalion howls and scrambles at his face from where he lays prone and dazed on the ground.

Morell pulls a fresh clip from the inside of her jacket and discharges more presumably wolfsbane loaded bullets after loading the gun in her hand faster than Stiles has ever seen someone capable of doing. The alpha is running claws through his flesh, trying to rip the bullets out as the wolfsbane starts to work. Stiles’ attention is momentarily ripped away by the sight of three figures clambering through the hole in the ground leading to the root cellar and he is swamped by the relief he feels at seeing them all alive. His father looks a little worse for wear and haggard with exhaustion but relatively unharmed and Stiles wants to fall to his knees in gratitude for small miracles. 

Stiles has looked away for less than half a minute when Deucalion rises from the ground, his torn flesh beginning to heal over despite the wolfesbane that must be coursing into his bloodstream. Bullet casings litter the ground where he has torn them out and the alpha turns his crazed, blind sight on both Morell and Stiles as he lurches forward with his claws poised to strike. Morell dives to the ground, a glint of silver catching on the moonlight as the dagger in her hand severs the tendons at the back of the wolf's legs. Stiles reflexes are slower and he hauls up his bat seconds too late. 

The wooden bat is crushed in the alphas hands as he roars in pain and advances on him, legs buckling underneath his weight. Stiles isn’t quick enough to dodge the clawed hand as it grasps his bicep and is shoved to the ground as the full weight of the Deucalion’s body falls on his chest. He can feel the claws imbed themselves into his arms and a sudden crippling pain in his chest cavity as he feels what he is sure is one or more of his ribs snapping. 

Most of what happens next is lost in a haze of agony. He struggles to breathe even as the weight is lifted off his chest, and is somewhat aware of blood trickling down into the crevice of his elbow as his arm bleeds freely. Struggling to sit up and take in what is happening jars his body enough to fully condemn him to darkness, and he passes out to a blurred vision of red hair and brown eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and please leave comments :)


	4. It's true a man gets used to anything

The sharp impact of a hand against his cheek jolts him into consciousness and he gulps in several pained and labored breaths before he can take in his surroundings. Scott is poised over him, hollering something he can’t make out at someone over his shoulder. Turning back to face him, Scott lets out a slow breath of relief when Stiles manages a pained smile for his best friend. 

“Looks like Robin saves the day dude, 147 pounds of fragile human my ass” Stiles says and Scott chokes on a laugh. Stiles doesn’t dare laugh with him, he would probably end up rupturing something with the way his luck is going today. Scott leans down and pulls up his less than pristine t-shirt and places his hand on Stiles’ chest. His whole body immediately relaxes as the pain is leached away and he is able to drag a few breaths in without feeling like he is going to pierce a lung. As it is, it feels like he’s been given a steady morphine drip directly into his veins and the ache lessens so drastically it leaves him light headed and feeling invincible. 

He sits up with some help from Scott and notices Deaton crouched over the bodies of the Darach and Deucalion at the base of the nemeton. Morell is crowded in close as they whisper God knows what in that annoyingly mysterious way of theirs, making Stiles long for werewolf hearing to satiate his curiosity. Lydia and Allison are huddled over Stiles’ dad and Melissa as Isaac clutches at their wrists with darkened veins as he takes the pain from their injuries away. Scott gets him to his feet and together they make their way slowly over to the group. His dad’s face when he sees him is enough to make his eyes well with tears and his heart constrict. Stiles pulls him into a hug, doped up enough from Scott numbing his pain that he barely feels the strain on his cracked ribs as they tighten their arms around each other. 

“Stiles, Lydia says your jeep isn’t far away? Do you think you could help your dad and Melissa home?” Mr. Argent asks as he circles the burns around his wrists with his fingers and slips back into his bad-ass hunter mode like a well-tailored jacket. It’s a little disconcerting and Stiles takes a second to try and remember what direction they traveled in from the edge of the preserve to the clearing but nothing is coming back to him. Isaac steps in and offers to lead them back by scent and Mr. Argent gives him a small, grateful smile and claps him on the shoulder. 

“What about the bodies?” Stiles asks as he glances over at Deaton and Morell who have begun to sort through several vials laid out on the dirt in a precise and clearly practiced routine. 

“Deaton is going to use them as sacrifices; the nemeton will absorb the power the Darach borrowed back to correct the balance. Allison and I will take care of Deucalion after. I want to make sure there are no surprises” Mr. Argent replies, matter of fact as Stiles envisions bodies cleaved in half and quickly shakes the images from his imagination. 

“So that’s it? It just takes the power back and everything is done?” Scott asked, confused and sounding a little doubtful. Deaton finishes pouring a circle of bluish colored powder around the base of the tree and the two bodies, dipping his finger into a viscous white paste from another as he spreads it into seemingly meaningless shapes at five points around the circle. A deep hum resonates through the ground like a pulse as he finishes the last symbol, and Stiles looks up sharply as Morell makes eye contact, his nerves tingling like they did when the bat and the mountain ash made contact with Deucalion’s face. 

Stiles is unnerved by her intense stare, like he is supposed to know what to say and is coming up short. Her brother draws her attention away and back to the ritual, but the feeling lingers and leaves him unsettled. No one else seems affected by the light pulse reverberating through the ground, so Stiles files it away for later and instead focuses on helping his dad toward the jeep and hopefully toward the end of this whole shitty experience. 

 

***

 

The sheriff lets out a pained huff of breath for every five to six steps they take and Stiles can feel his mind start to churn in circles of worry as he leans on Scott to help him through the thick brush. His dad had insisted he could walk without help so Isaac instead focused on Melissa, whose legs were cramping so badly from being tied up they had been forced to stop twice already. She insists Isaac not help her with the pain, trying to convince everyone that her legs just need the exertion of walking to stretch back out. 

“Just fifty yards or so more and we should be at the edge of the preserve” Isaac reassures, boosting Melissa’s arm up a little over his shoulders. Scott keeps darting worried glances at his mother but doesn’t seem to want to incur her wrath by questioning her ability to keep going. 

“Has anyone heard anything from Derek or Cora?” Scott asks, looking around and pausing on Isaac who shakes his head and looks down with a concerned frown. 

“And no one else is at all concerned that that might be very, very bad?” Stiles asks, incredulously after a few moments of silence. 

“Last I saw he was taking Cora back to the loft from the hospital. I tried his cell before we left Deaton’s but he didn’t answer” Isaac replies.

Stiles looks between Scott, Isaac, and Lydia but only gets blank, worried stares in return. He huffs a little in exasperation but focuses back on walking before he ends up braining himself on a stray tree limb. They are going to have to make it out of the preserve before they can help anyone else, much as he hates not knowing what’s going on. 

The Jeep is just visible through the trees and Stiles lets out a whoop of gratitude that they finally made it. The Sherriff has been way too quiet during their trek back through the woods and Stiles knows he is just amassing an catalog of information to question him on later. The prospect is less than exciting to say the least. Settling Melissa in the back of the Jeep with Lydia and Isaac, Scott crouches on the floor behind the gear shift while Stiles helps settle his dad in the passenger seat. They are cramped in pretty much as tightly as his jeep can manage, and Stiles gasps out a pained breath as his ribs protest the movement it takes to settle into the driver’s side and start the ignition. 

 

***

 

Awkward silence reigns in the car as Stiles pulls the jeep into the left side of the drive way and kills the engine. Lydia gives him a pained smile as they catch eyes over the hood, and she offers to help clean them both up if they direct her toward the first aid kit. The living room couch has never been such a welcome sight in his life and he eases himself down onto the cushions as slowly as he can so as not to disturb his aching ribs. He can see a visit to the hospital in his future but there is no way in hell they are going tonight. His father quickly settles into his favorite chair and proceeds to stare Stiles down until he caves.

“Ok, ok, enough with the staring just ask already!” Stiles begs after two solid minutes of dead silence, aside from the muffled shifting of Lydia gathering their first aid supplies from the upstairs bathroom. 

“Oh I think I have earned a few answers here Stiles and I want the truth, understand me?” the sheriff demands with a stern finger pointed his son’s direction.

“If you remember correctly I kind of tried to explain all this to you but-

“Don’t you sass me son, I have been tied up and left for days in a hole in the ground waiting to die, so forgive me if I’m not in the mood. Now apparently the town I have lived in for more than twenty years is filled with werewolves and hunters and fucking druids and not only is my son aware this is happening, you’re in the middle of it! And Deaton, a man I have known for years, just prepared some sort of Wiccan sacrifice around a tree stump while my son and his best friend helped kill an alpha werewolf. I’m having a little trouble catching up here, ok?” his dad finishes, his face beet red from exertion while Stiles itches to check his blood pressure. 

“I’m sorry dad, alright? I never even wanted you involved. I’m in this now, I can’t help that. Scott needs me and so does Allison, and Isaac, and Lydia, and everyone else. This whole thing has gotten so out of control but it’s done now. It’s done” Stiles replies, staring down at his feet and feeling his heart clench at the thought that his dad might not be able to accept this. It’s part of him now, and he can’t change that. 

Lydia lightly descends the last few steps and walks into the room, clearly trying not to acknowledge the tense air between them. She prompts Stiles to scoot forward on the cushions and helps him pull his shirt over his head. He can’t help but think of how different he might have felt only a few months ago, having Lydia Martin pulling off his clothes. He smiles as the same thought seems to cross her mind and the share a rueful glance as she gathers some binding for his ribs. Painful as his chest feels, cleaning out the deep gashes where Deucalion’s claws pulled apart the skin on his arm is much worse. The antiseptic burns like Lydia pressed a lit match straight to his skin. His father is silent as he watches her clean up his son, and Stiles is almost grateful, knowing the full interrogation might not be tonight. 

Lydia moves over to his father, who immediately insists he’s alright, but shrinks and quiets at the heat of Lydia’s glare as she grabs his wrists and begins to clean the rope burns imbedded into his skin. Stiles feels sluggish and tired as the adrenaline starts to leave his system, and he half heartedly pulls his phone from his pocket when he feels it buzz with an incoming text. 

 

‘Mom is tired and freaked out but ok. Going to crash for the night. Your dad ok?’

 

He tells Scott they’re fine, even if he doesn’t really believe it and grapples back and forth over whether he should call Derek. Honestly he is not sure he is up for more supernatural adventures tonight but the chances that something is seriously wrong are too great to risk. Attitude and scowling aside, Derek would not have left them on their own to face Jennifer if he could help it. His self- sacrificing streak has been even more pronounced recently, and the chances that he has done something stupid are pretty high. Especially because it pretty much always turns out badly. The phone is ringing before he can change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some buffer left so there should be another chapter up in a few days. Let me know what you guys think in the comments!


	5. Of this we all stand accused

“Stiles. How nice of you to join us” Peter says, smiling up at him. Stiles would appreciate his cordial tone a little more if he weren’t being held three feet off the ground with a clawed hand in a vice-like grip around his throat.

“Peter, let him down” Cora barks from her crouched position by the bed. Her eyes are a warm, golden yellow and Stiles would be more relieved to see her alive if she were a little more proactive about helping him out here. Peter winks at him before dropping him like a stone to the ground. Remarkable, how he shifts from predator to harmless little louse when it suits him. 

“Cora, glad to see your looking good as new” Stiles chokes out on a wheeze, clutching at his throat where it is flushed red from Peter’s grip. Careful to keep one eye focused on Peter, Stiles shuffles over to the bed. He should frankly be more surprised to see an ashen, comatose Derek Hale lying prone on the sheets because really, what is his life now? He really needs to start re-evaluating his choices in friends. 

“I tried calling but no one answered. I thought the alphas might have…” Stiles trails off as he imagines finding just their bodies left to decay in the loft, and shakes himself a little trying to displace the picture. Cora resumes her seat at her brother’s side and softly pets the side of his face. Stiles hadn’t particularly imagined her as the gentle nursemaid type but he figures if he and Scott had gone through as much as this pair has in the last few weeks, he would be permanently glued to his best friend’s side. With like industrial strength super glue. If that’s even a thing that exists. 

“Derek is too weak to fight. Kali could come any second and we need to get both him and Cora as far away from-

“Except she’s dead” Stiles interrupts, and even Peter looks baffled. “Jennifer is dead. Deaton and Morell are taking care of her body, something about balances of power and honesty I wasn’t really paying very close attention. Deucalion, Kali, for sure one of the twins, all dead. These are things you would know if you would keep a damn phone on and check it once in awhile” he grounds out in a frustrated grumble.

Cora gapes at him, her eyes tracking down to the bandages around his arm and the stiff, closed off way he is holding himself. His ribs are throbbing, despite the heavy and not at all recommended dose of ibuprofen he had taken that morning. While the pain has lessened some, it hasn’t managed to relieve the bone deep exhaustion. He had slept hard and blissfully dreamless until he had been startled awake by the vibrating of his cell phone beneath his pillow where it wouldn’t wake his dad when his alarm went off. He snuck out of the house soon after getting dressed, hoping his dad would be dead to the world for another couple of hours while he checked on Derek and Cora. 

“Convenient then, that Alan was available to handle such a ritual. No one else is concerned he may choose to take her power for himself instead of rendering the tree dormant?” Peter drawls, his arms crossed as he inspects Stiles like a rabbit with its broken leg trapped in a snare. Stiles instinctively curls further in.

I don’t think Deaton is particularly interested in power gained from human sacrifice” Stiles bites back and Peter’s eyes flicker and narrow in response. 

“Deaton advised our mother once Peter, he has earned our respect” Cora asserts, glaring at her uncle.

“Temptation is an ugly thing-

“Hard as it likely is for you to understand, some of us aren’t opportunistic sociopaths who-

Stile’s glib response is cut short by a snarling growl and a former alpha werewolf shoving up into his space. Peter’s threatening posture is just enough to send Stiles careening over his mental breaking point and its clear he’s caught the wolf by surprise when he shoves his hands into his chest and growls right back, as much as his human vocal chords are able to mimic at least. Peter’s eyes flash blue and he shifts back half a step, reassessing in a way that almost looks impressed.

“Why is it the only human worth biting refuses the honor when it’s offered?” Peter tilts his head inquiringly, as he smirks at Stiles’ attempt to puff himself up into something more threatening. Stiles refuses to answer but shifts backwards and over to the other side of the bed; so sue him if he feels more comfortable with at least one werewolf between him and Peter. Cora catches his eyes as he sits and lifts her eyebrow in a fashion so similar to her brother it leaves Stiles feeling suddenly inexplicably fond. Well, and admittedly a little miffed that such wordless expression of derision and disdain don’t come as naturally to his own facial features. 

“And what’s with sourwolf here?” Stiles asks, carefully unaffected by the corpse- like skin two inches from his own. 

“He healed me. He took too much though, pushed himself too far. The kind of power it takes to bring someone back like that Stiles, it’s huge. He won’t be an Alpha anymore” Cora murmurs, her head bowed with what Stiles would probably guess is something like guilt. Self-sacrificing and brooding silence are apparently traits not exclusive to Derek. 

“So what, he’s a beta now? An omega?” Stiles asks, still a little thrown.

“When he wakes up…if he wakes up…he’ll be a beta again. You know, like before you burned me alive and he slashed my throat” Peter comments, still watching them from the windows and leaning against the table like he’s posing for a GQ cover shoot. Stiles rolls his eyes at the exaggerated nonchalance. 

“How long has he been out?”Stiles asks. 

“About fourteen hours. I’ve been watching him this whole time but he hasn’t so much as twitched” Cora replies, her brow furrowing with undisguised worry. 

“Well is there some way you can help him heal?” Stiles questions.

“It doesn’t work like that. We can take pain away but we can’t impel the body to repair itself. He used a lot of energy giving me the kind of power an alpha uses to heal faster. Now he doesn’t have that resilience either and isn’t healing so much as he is drained” she responds. 

“Then I guess we wait” Stiles sighs, and walks over to the couch to check in with the Scott and the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments. Please continue to let me know what you think. Its my first time posting so I am nervous about people's reactions

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of what will be a long fic if i get enough response to continue. I have a bit of a buffer and the rest of the fic plotted out so let me know if you guys like it :)


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